


An Exercise in Self-Control

by arliddian



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, Jealous Steve Rogers, Reader-Insert, Romance, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:02:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26663368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arliddian/pseuds/arliddian
Summary: From the moment Steve met you, you’ve tested his patience and pushed the limits of his self-control. He holds himself back, but it’s only a matter of time before the thread of tension between you finally snaps…
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 97





	An Exercise in Self-Control

When Steve first meets you, he knows almost immediately that you're going to be trouble.

He walks into the gym to find you pinning Clint face-down on the training mat with his arms twisted up behind his back, your knee pressed to his neck. It's difficult to get a good glimpse of your face from this angle, but Steve can make out the edges of a triumphant grin underneath your messy hair.

“Okay, okay, you win,” Clint grunts. 

You release him and stand up, running your fingers through your hair to sweep it back from your face, every movement self-assured and confident. You're all graceful curves and taut muscle and sweat-slicked skin, and Steve isn't made of stone, so yeah, he notices. For a moment, he can't do anything _but_ notice.

He steps closer, drawing your attention. You turn to him and place your hands on your hips as you look him up and down. "Hey there, soldier,” you greet him with a flirty smile.

Maybe it's the smile. Maybe it's the mischievous spark in your eyes. Maybe it's the sound of your voice, somehow sweet and sultry at the same time. Whatever it is, it stirs something inside him that he hasn’t felt since Peggy Carter stood in front of him with red lips and an arched eyebrow, and the shock of it leaves him momentarily speechless.

Thankfully, Clint comes in with the save, introducing you as the Avengers' newest recruit as he gets to his feet. He makes a joke about you always following in Natasha's footsteps, and you roll your eyes at him before reaching out to shake Steve's hand. 

Your hand feels small in his, but your handshake is firm and strong and by no means delicate. He can tell that you're not a woman to be trifled with, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t find that decidedly attractive.

He pulls himself together enough to say “Nice to meet you,” hoping that he looks and sounds a little more neutral than he feels right now. 

Clint runs through some of the highlights of your background and how you were recruited to the team, but Steve is only half-listening, nodding and responding on auto-pilot. He can read up on you later. Right now, he’s distracted. You’re distracting. And you’re not even doing anything besides standing there with your hands on your hips, chiming in with the occasional snarky correction or sly joke, your soft-looking lips curved into a smirk.

When Clint mentions introducing you to the rest of the team at the upcoming briefing, you wrinkle your nose. “I should probably hit the showers first so I’m a little more presentable,” you say, gesturing at yourself, and Steve has to harness every ounce of his self-control to keep his thoughts from drifting to just how _presentable_ you’d be under the spray of said shower. 

“It’s bad enough that the Captain here has had to meet me while I’m such a sweaty mess,” you continue in a playful tone. “I was hoping to make a better first impression.”

“You look good,” Steve says without thinking. Your eyebrows shoot up and he mentally kicks himself. Hastily, he adds, “I mean, I saw you take down Barton, so I’d say that was a pretty good-looking first impression.”

It’s not a particularly smooth cover-up, and he’s very aware of it. 

You murmur “Why, thank you, Captain,” with a knowing smile, and he can tell that you’ve seen his cards. 

“It’s just Steve,” he says as mildly as he can, even as he feels the tips of his ears burning red.

“Go ahead and clean up and we’ll see you in the briefing room in thirty,” Clint tells you cheerfully, apparently oblivious to the thread of electricity running between the two of you. Steve has never been more thankful for the fact that the archer’s sharp eyes are much better at picking out targets than they are at detecting interpersonal signals.

You nod. “Will do. Thanks for the workout, Barton—maybe next time I’ll let you win.” You clap him on the shoulder with a teasing grin and then turn to Steve. 

“Nice to meet you, Steve,” you say, your smile softening into something warmer. “Looking forward to working with you.” You toss a wink at him as you begin to walk away, and it hits him like a sucker punch. 

Yeah. He’s definitely in trouble.

* * * * *

Attraction is one thing; sheer vexation is another entirely. Steve quickly discovers that you’re more than capable of stirring up both.

On your first mission with the team, you charge off alone after a group of HYDRA agents despite Steve’s repeated orders that you wait for back-up. By the time he manages to fight his way to you, you’re hunched over and panting in the middle of a ring of limp bodies, both hands pressed against your side. 

“Sorry I didn’t leave any for you,” you wheeze, attempting a cocky smile. The effect is significantly dampened by the blood Steve can see seeping through your fingers. 

He wraps an arm around you and helps you back to the quinjet, gritting his teeth the whole way. He hates that right now he can smell the coppery scent of your blood more than the mingled essence of your sweat and soap and shampoo. He hates that the only reason you’re pressing your body against him is because you can barely stand. And he hates that this could all have been avoided if you had just followed his orders.

He waits until after you’ve been given the all-clear from the medical team before reprimanding you for your recklessness. You nod gravely as you listen to him, all innocent eyes and apologetic smile, and he’s easily charmed into accepting your assurances that you’ll act less rashly next time. 

During your second mission, you disappear. The charges are set for timed detonation and the rest of the team is clear of the blast zone, but you’re nowhere to be seen. Tony flies back to scan for you near your last known position while Steve desperately barks your name into the comms again, trying to confirm your status. There’s no response. With less than fifteen seconds left to detonation, Steve’s heart plummets into his stomach. 

Suddenly your voice calls “Heads up, Tin Man!” and a window shatters on the top floor. You leap out of the building and collide with Tony mid-air, who somehow manages to catch you and fly you both to safety mere seconds before the entire building collapses.

Steve immediately kneels beside you, eyes sweeping your body for any injuries. Apart from a few cuts and scrapes, you seem fine—in fact, you’re _laughing_. His relief gives way to exasperated fury. 

“I told you to get out of there. What the hell were you doing?” he snaps. 

“Couldn’t resist digging up a little dirt,” you answer blithely, holding up a USB drive.

This time he doesn’t bother waiting to chastise you—he rips into you right there and then. And once again, you blink innocently and make contrite faces and swear that you’ll follow orders next time. He gives you a hard stare, but the longer he looks into your eyes, the more he loses himself in them, and the easier it is to fool himself into believing you.

The third time, you ignore Steve’s orders to leave him behind and get to safety.

“Very noble of you, Cap, but I’m not letting you have all the fun,” you grin before launching yourself at the advancing team of enhanced mercenaries.

Between the two of you, bodies are hitting the ground all around the room, and soon there are only a few left standing. But then Steve hears you cry out in pain, and he whips around to find you being thrown violently across the room. You slam into the wall with a sickening thud and when you fall to the floor, you don’t get back up.

He sees red. Adrenaline courses through him and the next thing he knows, all the enemies are down and he’s rushing to your unconscious form. As he carries you to safety, he tries to push back the emotions threatening to swamp him: panic over the state you’re in, guilt over his failure to protect you, lingering rage at the mercenary who did this to you, and a healthy dose of frustration that you hadn’t just left when he told you to go. 

He waits by your bedside in the medical bay until you wake up. When you see him sitting there, you smile and greet him with a languid “Hey there, soldier,” and the curve of your lips and the sound of your voice make something tighten in his chest. 

But then you ask, “Can we skip the lecture today and just fast-forward to the part where I promise not to do it again and you forgive me?” with an infuriating little smirk that indicates that you have absolutely no intention of changing your behaviour.

Dear God, you try his patience. He has to clench his fingers into fists to keep from grabbing you by the shoulders and either shaking some sense into you or kissing you senseless.

* * * * *

Steve has never been a huge fan of Tony’s parties and charity events to begin with, but these days he’s really beginning to dread them. It has nothing to do with the host or the guests or anything about the events themselves—it’s all because of you.

Each time, you arrive looking utterly incandescent, and Steve doesn’t know whether to curse or thank whoever designs your dresses for the way they so sensuously accentuate your figure. It’s difficult not to just stare at you all night as you flit around the room like some kind of glamorous butterfly. Unsurprisingly, other men practically form a line to try to capture your attention, and you indulge each one ever so briefly before moving along. Steve knows that he has no claim over you, but watching you smile and laugh and flirt with all these acquaintances and strangers always evokes something primal and possessive in him, and he hates it. His only comfort is that you always return to the Compound unaccompanied at the end of the night.

Most of the time he can shove his feelings for you into the back corners of his mind so that he can get on with the day. But at these events, he’s practically slapped in the face with them, and it takes a monumental amount of restraint to keep himself in check. 

Tonight, it’s a charity gala, and as usual, you’re a little late. The rest of the team has already run the gauntlet of reporters and fans gathered outside, and they’re waiting for you to arrive so that everyone can head upstairs and make their entrance.

You finally saunter into the lobby, and Steve’s mouth goes dry. Your gown flows smoothly over your body. It has a surprisingly high neckline, but with the way the deep blue fabric clings to your curves, it’s by no means modest. The long slit in the skirt reveals a glimpse of your slender leg with every other step. Your hair is swept up in an elegant twist, a few tendrils escaping to frame your beautiful face. You are, in short, absolutely stunning.

The other men in the group immediately express their approval: a wolf whistle from Clint; a “Damn!” from Sam; a grin and “Looking good, doll,” from Bucky. Tony actually slow claps. 

“Thanks, boys,” you say breezily, batting your eyelashes at them.

Meanwhile, Steve is speechless. There’s a flame burning low in the pit of his stomach, and the cocky smile you flash just adds fuel to the fire. It only gets worse when everyone is ushered into the elevators. You step in after Steve and turn to face the doors, and dear God, how had he not noticed that your dress is backless? 

The short ride up to the ballroom is torturous. The scent of your perfume fills his nostrils, light but intoxicating. You’re close enough that if he lifts his hand a little higher he could brush his fingers against your bare back. A little higher still and he could take hold of the dangling ends of the tie straps fastening your dress around your neck and then… 

There’s a loud ding, and Steve swallows thickly as the doors slide open. You sweep out of the elevator and he waits a beat before following, expelling a deep breath to steady his racing pulse. 

You walk confidently into the ballroom ahead of him, and he can already see the heads turning in your direction, the appreciative glances and hungry eyes. He has the sudden urge to stride forward and plant his hand on the small of your back, to draw you close to his side as you wind through the crowd. He wants it so badly he can practically feel your skin under his fingers, soft and smooth and warm. His hand twitches and he shoves it in his pocket to avoid temptation.

You stop to greet someone with a bright smile and a kiss on the cheek, a man Steve recognises from the last few events. He feels his jaw clench as he moves to step past you and head towards the bar. Alcohol won’t get him drunk, but it might help to wash away the unwarranted jealousy that has suddenly bubbled up in his stomach.

“Hold it right there, soldier,” you say lightly, breaking your conversation to grab Steve’s bicep as he passes. Surprised, he stops and blinks down at you.

“Last time we were at one of these things, you agreed to save me a dance and then you never delivered,” you continue, arching one eyebrow at him. 

“I thought you were joking,” he replies, his own eyebrows drawing together in confusion.

“I was dead serious. And I never forget a promise.” With a coy smile, you walk your fingers up his arm and tap him lightly on the chest. “Just know that tonight I plan to collect.” With one final press of your finger to his chest, you wink and turn smoothly back to your conversation. 

Steve stands stock-still for a moment before slowly continuing to make his way to the bar. He has a sneaking suspicion that, whatever happens tonight, it’s going to drag him right to the very edge of his self-control. A shiver runs down his spine, but he’s not entirely sure if it’s from anxiety or anticipation.

* * * * *

If Steve didn’t know any better, he’d think this mission was specifically planned to torment him.

The target is Derek Finn, a former high-ranking S.H.I.E.L.D engineer who had gone off the grid when HYDRA was exposed. He’s coincidentally resurfaced at the same time that a few other engineers from the same division have gone missing and the experimental tech they'd been working on has been showing up on the black market. There’s just enough of a trail to hint at his involvement but not enough to confirm what it is, so the objective is to meet with him to try to get more intel—or, failing that, plant a bug on him to track his next move. 

For the most part, Steve has no problem with the mission parameters. But there’s one detail that bothers him: apparently, you have a history with Finn. Enough of a history that you had insisted on being the one to meet him, confident that he would trust you. Enough of a history that Natasha and Clint had immediately assured the rest of the team that you were the best person to get close to him. Enough of a history that you had been adamant on being left to work the op alone, with Steve and Sam to run surveillance and only come in as backup if absolutely necessary. 

So tonight Steve has been forced to sit on the sidelines while you meet Finn for a drink, dressed to the nines and looking so gorgeous that it would be impossible for any man’s eyes to be fixed on anything but you. Forced to listen over the comms as you easily slip into a comfortable rapport with him at the bar, your voice perfectly pitched to charm and entice. Forced to watch from a car across the street as you smile and him and touch his arm in a way that suggests an established, casual intimacy. 

“… when I heard about Louis and Chandra, I had to make sure you were alright,” he can hear you saying now. “We don’t know who’s behind all of this, but you could be next. You need to be careful.”

Steve is aware that you’re just trying to secure Finn’s trust. But with your voice laced with so much warmth and sincerity, he can almost believe that you do genuinely care about him. 

He doesn’t like that thought at all. 

Through the windows, he sees Finn nod. “I will,” he says, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Still thinkin’ about me after all this time, huh?” 

“Old habits die hard, Derek.” There’s a distinctly sultry edge to your voice, and Steve feels his jaw clench.

“For me, too,” Finn replies in a low voice. Steve sees him place a hand on your thigh, and his blood boils. 

“Oh, come on,” he growls under his breath, his own hand curling into a fist. 

“You okay, man?” Sam’s voice sounds over the comms.

Damn it. 

Steve sits up straighter and tries to relax his fingers. “I'm fine."

"You see something we should be worried about?"

"No. Just want to get this done,” he answers shortly, hoping his irritation comes across as general impatience.

“Well, you won’t have to wait much longer. Sounds like she’s wrapping up.”

Steve tunes back into your conversation. It looks like you've told Finn that you have to leave—you're gathering up your purse, and Steve notes with maybe a little too much satisfaction that Finn is no longer touching you.

"… but if you hear anything, get in touch," you’re telling him, pressing a business card implanted with a miniscule tracking device into his hand.

"I gotta have a reason to contact you?" he asks with a sly smirk. "I don't remember it being like that back in the day."

"Actually, back then there was always a very _specific_ reason to get in touch," you reply in that suggestive, sultry tone as you slide off the bar stool. You place a hand on his chest and lean in close, your lips right by his ear. "And I have a feeling we'll be seeing each other again soon."

You press a lingering kiss to his cheek, and even though Steve can see you taking advantage of the distraction to attach the secondary tracker to Finn's phone, he has the sudden urge to rip the car door open, stalk inside, and punch the other man right in the mouth. The feeling doesn't dissipate when you turn and walk away—he can still see the wolfish look on Finn's face as he watches you go.

Steve takes a deep breath, trying to release the tension in his jaw. When it comes to you, he always feels too much, too violently. 

“Target’s been tagged,” you mutter just loud enough for the comms to pick up as you move towards the entrance. “Rendezvous six minutes.”

“Nice work,” Sam says. “You get a good read on him?”

“He was lying. He definitely knows a lot more than he’s letting on. We’re gonna have to keep a close eye on him.” As you step out onto the sidewalk, you heave a dramatic sigh. “I really need to stop picking the bad boys."

You dart a quick glance across the street. “Time to find a good one,” you add in a low murmur, and for a brief moment your eyes lock with Steve’s. Your lips curve into a slow, deliberate smile, and then you turn aside and start walking briskly towards the rendezvous point.

In an instant, the dark knot of jealousy in the pit of Steve's stomach burns away, replaced by a sudden flame, white-hot and sharp.

* * * * *

Steve has always tried to avoid one-on-one combat training with you. The idea of being that physical with you, having that much close contact—it thrills him in a way that alarms him. His self-control is already stretched to the limit whenever he’s with you; he’s not sure how well he’d be able to hold himself back if he was grappling with you on the practice mat.

But tonight, with half the team out on smaller missions and the rest occupied with other tasks, you’d asked him to join you for a session. And against his better judgment, faced with your beseeching eyes and inviting smile, he’d agreed. 

What a mistake.

It’s bad enough that you’d strolled into the gym wearing nothing but a sports bra and a pair of tiny shorts. But you’re also in a particularly playful mood, and it’s doing nothing to help him keep a level head.

“C’mon Steve, pick up your game,” you tease as you yet again break out of his hold and bring him to his knees with a well-placed kick. “I didn’t bring you down here just so you could go easy on me.”

He grits his teeth as he gets to his feet. You drop into your fighting stance once more and shoot him a cheeky grin, and it sets something off in him. 

Alright, fine. No more holding back.

This time, he comes at you full-tilt, and he notices with smug satisfaction that it puts you on the back foot. You recover as best you can, but for the next several minutes the fight is fierce and fast and Steve retains the upper hand. Your body is beautiful in combat, lithe and graceful, but he doesn’t let himself dwell on it. Instead, he sinks into the moment and lets his instincts take over.

He catches your arm as you swipe at him, and before you can twist away, he charges forward, pushing you backwards until your back hits the wall. Before you can react, he grabs your other hand and then suddenly he’s got you pinned flat by the wrists with both arms above your head, trapped between his body and the wall. 

You try to escape his grasp but he remains unyielding, and after a few more seconds of struggling, you give up entirely. 

“Okay, I’m at your mercy,” you pant, your eyes alight with that mischievous spark. “Now what?”

His heart thumps hard in his chest, racing with adrenaline. You’re completely overwhelming his senses. The sight of you pinned against the wall, cheeks flushed and chest heaving. The sound of your voice, light and teasing, sweet and sultry. The scent of you, your sweat and soap and shampoo mingling together, familiar and intoxicating. The feel of you, your body right beneath his, the heat radiating off your skin… 

Then you raise an eyebrow at him and pull your bottom lip between your teeth, and his tenuous rein on his self-control completely snaps. 

His lips crash down on yours before he realises what he’s doing. You open your mouth to let out a muffled gasp, and then he can _taste_ you, the sweetness of you on his tongue at last. It’s a hard, desperate, reckless kiss, and for a few seconds he is completely lost in it, lost in you.

Then his mind finally catches up to the rest of his body and screams _What the hell are you doing?_

He pulls away from you abruptly. Your eyes are wide, blinking at him in pure astonishment as you lick your now-swollen lips. For an agonising moment you do nothing but stare at him in stunned silence. 

Oh, God. What has he done?

Immediately, he releases your wrists and stumbles back, heart plummeting into his stomach. His mind scrambles for words, any words, to make it right and take it back. But before he can open his mouth to stammer out an apology, a huge smile spreads across your face.

“It’s about damn time,” you breathe. And then you surge forward and lock your lips to his.

Your kiss is just as demanding and eager and passionate as his had been, and the feel of it, of _you_ , chases all coherent thoughts from his brain. You clutch the back of his head to pull him closer and he responds by pressing you even more firmly against the wall. A low moan reverberates in his mouth but he’s not sure if it’s your voice or his.

“Upstairs,” you gasp when you pull back for breath. “My room.” 

He has enough presence of mind left to realise that you’re trying to move this to somewhere a little more private. The second he eases up, you seize his hand, lacing your fingers through his, and he follows you in a daze as you pull him briskly out of the gym and up to your quarters.

The short journey is just long enough for uncertainty to come creeping back into the edges of his mind. But then your door closes behind him and you launch yourself at him again, claiming his mouth with yours, your fingers slipping under his shirt and leaving burning trails over his torso. He places his hands on the bare skin of your waist and you happily sigh his name against his lips, and any lingering doubts melt away along with the remaining shreds of his self-control. 

A long time later, he wakes up in your bed, serene and satisfied, your body draped over his. He stretches carefully, trying not to disturb you, but your eyelashes flutter open and a contented smile spreads across your face when you tilt your head to look up at him.

“Hey there, soldier,” you purr, pushing yourself up to press a languorous kiss to his lips. 

“Hi,” he smiles when you finally pull away. His fingers paint lazy strokes up and down your back, and he marvels once again at how gloriously soft and smooth your skin feels under his touch. 

You lean back, angling so he can see your whole face. “So, I know this was kind of… impulsive,” you say slowly, and he hears the nervousness in your voice despite the crooked smile on your lips. “And if you’re not looking for more, that’s okay. But I just want you to know—I’m all in, if you are.”

His heart expands to the point of bursting. He reaches up to cup your face and draws you down so he can kiss you, slow and gentle and sweet this time.

“I’ve been all in since the day I met you,” he murmurs, threading his fingers through the hair at the nape of your neck. “I’ve been holding myself back because I didn’t think you felt the same way.”

The smile that lights up your face could rival the sun. “I definitely do,” you affirm, your voice low and full of warmth. You lean down to kiss him again, and the only word for what he feels right now is _bliss_.

* * * * *

Steve had thought that being in a relationship with you would mean that you’d stop driving him so crazy all the time. He’d been very wrong. If anything, it’s worse.

When it comes to work, you’re still as bold and reckless as ever, charging headlong into danger without a second thought. If before you had tested his patience, now you practically give him a heart attack. 

To be honest, he kind of loves that you care so much about the cause, that you trust your instincts and always do what you believe is right. He doesn’t want to change that about you. But now that he has you, he’s painfully conscious of how much he has to lose. 

At first, he tries lecturing you, coaxing you, reasoning with you to get you to take fewer insane risks. But once you figure out how easy it is to distract him, he gives up. All it takes is you biting your lip and fluttering your lashes and trailing your fingers down his chest, and he’s a goner. So now he just puts up with the discomfort of his stomach twisting itself in knots every time you work a mission. 

It’s just as bad at Tony’s events. Your relationship isn’t a secret from the team, but for both privacy and publicity reasons, it’s not common knowledge. So at every party and every fundraiser, Steve still has watch you smile and laugh and flirt with a random assortment of men, dressed up in all your seductive glory, and somehow keep his hands to himself. 

He never has any doubts about you. He knows he’s the one you’ll be coming home with at the end of the night. But it still feels like he’s always teetering right on the very edge of his self-control, like his jaw might crack from how much he clenches it throughout the evening. 

The worst part is that you seem to relish pushing his buttons. 

You’ve been in particularly fine form at tonight’s party, in that little black dress you know is one of his favourites. You keep shooting him little teasing glances from across the room: every time you’re approached by another man, every time your conversation shifts from friendly to flirtatious, every time you let your hand linger a little longer than necessary during a casual touch on the arm. So yeah, you know exactly what you’re doing to him. And you clearly have no intentions of stopping.

Well, if that’s how you want to play it, Steve’s not going to take it lying down.

He begins walking towards the bar, where you’re chatting cosily with Bucky. As soon as you see him coming, an impish smile crosses your face. You lean closer to whisper something into Bucky’s ear, making him chuckle. And even though Steve knows that there is most definitely nothing going on between his girl and his best friend, he feels a tiny flicker of jealousy in the pit of his stomach. 

When Bucky follows your gaze to Steve, he shakes his head with an amused grin and raises his hands as if to say _Leave me out of this_. He leaves you at the bar and claps Steve on the shoulder as he passes by.

Steve steps up beside you and leans on his elbow as you deliberately turn to face the bar. “Really doing your best to drive me completely crazy tonight, aren’t you?" he asks you, his voice a low murmur that borders on a growl. 

"I don’t know what you’re talking about, Steve. I'm just enjoying the party," you reply with an innocent smile, lifting your champagne flute to your lips and shooting him a sidelong glance. "Aren't you?"

"I can think of other things I'd enjoy more," he says, cocking an eyebrow and dragging his gaze slowly up and down the length of your body. When he looks up at your face again, he notices with a flash of triumph that there’s an unmistakeable heat in your eyes.

See, you might know how to test his limits—but he's well-versed in your weaknesses now, too.

He leans forward to grab a beer from the ice bucket on the bar beside you, making sure to move in close so that his body nudges up against yours, his arm grazing your chest as he reaches past you. He tries not to smirk when he hears your sharp intake of breath.

"Two can play at this game, sweetheart," he murmurs into your ear, his lips brushing ever so slightly against your skin. He feels you shiver, and he suppresses a grin as he draws back, beer in hand.

He winks at you and your eyebrows shoot up, a surprised but delighted smile spreading across your face, heat flaring in your gaze again. He feels your eyes burning into him as he saunters away, and he allows himself a smug little smile. 

As much as Steve enjoys a bit of payback, he doesn’t really care who gets the upper hand tonight. It doesn’t matter if this evening turns into a competition over how far you can push the limits of each other’s self-control. After all, the simple fact is that you’re his and he’s yours, and as soon as the party ends, there won’t be any need to hold back. You’ve both already won.


End file.
